BBC Review

Were you to merely read the biography on The Revelations MySpace page you might be fooled into thinking that this is some wildly hip sensation waiting to happen. A debut single on Fierce Panda? Hanging out with the Killers and Brett Anderson? Even slightly worrying references to the Scissor Sisters and Sugababes are leavened by their supposed love of classic Motown. But a few listens to the debut album by the female vocal trio will set you straight. This is, I’m afraid to report, manufactured pop that, instead of a heart, has an aching void. Talk about soulless…

Heaven knows where Annika Magnberg, Sarah Vitorino and Louise Masters sprang from, but it certainly wasn’t anywhere where they value singing. The flat delivery of these three makes Bananarama sound like The Supremes. Pro-tooled to an inch of its life, the album’s cod-Detroit fluffiness may, at least, be lightweight enough to be ignored while blaring out of your kitchen radio while you munch your cereal listening to Terry Wogan, but over the space of a whole CD you’re in trouble.

Bleating over synthetic horns and airbrushed drums, the girls do the standard pop/girl ‘empowerment’ thing and diss their bad boyfriends while promising their good boyfriend that they’ll wait for them/are head over heels in love with them etc. They rhyme ‘lover’ with ‘undercover’. If I were Berry Gordy I’d sue.

Whereas a similar act like the Puppini Sisters have sass and grit to raise them above the crowd, The Revelations only smack of some very cynical marketing and a lack of anything that resembles talent. But at least they’ve now made me really appreciate the Sugababes. So thanks ladies…

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